


with a kiss to the firing squad

by Morrindah, thehobbem



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ...I guess? there's definitely some drama in a courtroom!, Alternate Universe - World War I, Courtroom Drama, Drama & Romance, Drinking, Espionage AU, M/M, Mata Hari AU, Mata Hari!Yuuri, also: it's a mata hari au but there are no deaths here so you can rest assured, and implied phichimetti in the background, pilot!victor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morrindah/pseuds/Morrindah, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehobbem/pseuds/thehobbem
Summary: "From the sacred temples of the Land of the Rising Sun to the stages of Paris! The Eastern Diamond, the Pearl of the Orient! The inimitable AMATERASU!The sound of a violin slithered through the room, and a single spot of low light showed a figure carefully splayed out on stage, lying in a shimmering pool of black fabric. The dancer undulated as if made of water, slowly rising. Like the sun on a winter morning, Victor thought, watching in a trance as the lights revealed a delicate smirk that both invited and mocked, brown eyes that alternated between glancing at the audience and avoiding it altogether, and hair as dark and soft-looking as the fabric of his costume, and just as ripe for messing up under someone else’s hands."





	with a kiss to the firing squad

**Author's Note:**

> Accompanying art by the incredible [Morrindah](https://twitter.com/TSiebenstein)!

**_April, 1915_**

** _WILL ITALY INTERVENE?_ **

_ M. Venizelos Has Wanted to Cooperate With The Entente For Months _

**_Spy: “Belle Lison”_** **_Dancer Amaterasu_**

_former lover of traitor Ullmo is arrested_ _is back in Paris for a new season!_

“We’re here, darling,” said Christophe.

Victor folded the newspaper in his hands and looked up: the Palais de Glace towered before them. Its nearly blinding lights, an imperfect and gaudy imitation of ice, stood out in the night like a sore thumb in that otherwise perfectly manicured hand that was the Avenue des Champs-Élysées. The building probably dated back to the reign of Louis XIV, if Victor was any judge, but those garish lights did a great job of hiding the Classical Baroque behind a curtain of vulgar, modern electricity.

He raised a brow. “It’s not exactly the Moulin Rouge.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Darling, after the fire not even the _ Moulin Rouge _is the Moulin Rouge, so you’ll just have to make do with the Palais. Now, shall we?”

Like a magician’s box, the Palais was much bigger on the inside than on the outside, and they had to weave their way through row after row of small round tables leading up to a stage of a respectable size. The lighting was a bit excessive and the decoration definitely opulent, but still a visible improvement from the offensive lights outside. 

Not that Victor was particularly finicky, really; one could always put on a show of skepticism — one had to, for the sake of appearances — but if he were to act on that he would never leave the house. So there he was, ready to waste another night on can-can and questionable champagne while half of Paris crammed itself in a room barely on this side of tasteful, and thin, blue cigarette smoke surrounded them like a pale imitation of shackles. A waste of time, but life was nothing if not jumping from one cheap sensation to the next in the dark of the night; one might as well throw their night away in the Palais. 

What one could _ not _do, apparently, was successfully pretend to like it, as halfway through the night Chris leaned in and whispered, “You don’t seem impressed.” 

That was not strictly true: Victor _ had _been impressed by the red-haired dancer — or rather, by her amazing sense of opportunity to have adopted “the Grand Duchess Mila Romanov” as a stage name. As stunning as she had been, with moves as cheerfully flexible as her audience’s morals, Victor doubted any Romanov princess had ever learned to move like that. Well, the Romanovs were no one’s problem anymore, so they might as well lend their name to a girl looking to make a few hundred bucks a week in Paris. But true enough, he hadn’t found much else to be entertained by, regardless of the acrobatic prowess of the Italian siblings now on stage. 

“No, no, I am impressed,” he lied from behind walls of fake enthusiasm. “I just… really want to see that dancer of yours, that’s all.” That was why he’d been dragged over here, after all: to see the famous Amaterasu.

As the Incredible Crispinos exited the stage, Victor looked at the program in his hands: Amaterasu was the next and final act of the night. Given how every newspaper in town had raved about the dancer’s return, little wonder the Palais would save their international sensation for last. 

_ From the sacred temples of the Land of the Rising Sun to the stages of Paris! The Eastern Diamond, the Pearl of the Orient! The inimitable AMATERASU! _

The sound of a violin slithered through the room, and a single spot of low light showed a figure carefully splayed out on stage, lying in a shimmering pool of black fabric. The dancer undulated as if made of water, slowly rising. _ Like the sun on a winter morning, _Victor thought, watching in a trance as the lights revealed a delicate smirk that both invited and mocked, brown eyes that alternated between glancing at the audience and avoiding it altogether, and hair as dark and soft-looking as the fabric of his costume, and just as ripe for messing up under someone else’s hands.

Fluid and billowy, he moved like a snake rising from a basket, crawling under Victor’s skin and reaching for his peace of mind with both his serpentine movement and his costume — the top, a mix of shining black, mesh and iridescent crystals, covered nothing and left his torso bare; the pants outlined everything he had to offer, hinting at a trail Victor would give an arm to follow. When the violin picked up, Amaterasu moved fast, certain, impossibly tempting, from the subtle point of his toes to the hips that moved in ways that would’ve eluded any other man.

And yet, all might have been forgiven as the feverish reverie of one night, forgotten when Victor walked out of the Palais, had the dancer’s eyes not locked on Victor’s. Maybe if they weren’t made of quiet mahogany and flame, or didn’t come with fluttering eyelashes and a deep-set blush that could be seen from the last rows — then maybe Victor could have broken free. As it was, in the breath of a second new roles were assigned: the snake became the charmer, and Victor the hypnotized one. Those eyes sought him, captured him, while the body rippled in a thousand promises.

When the music was over and Amaterasu bowed formally before the audience, he was showered by flowers and standing ovations. Victor, however, remained spellbound in his seat.

Chris gently nudged him. “I think you forgot to breathe, my friend.”

He turned to him like a desperate man. “Chris. I have to meet him. Do you…?” he trailed off, letting the intonation speak for itself. Chris would know.

Chris did know. “Darling, I’m a diplomat.” He gestured vaguely towards the rest of the room, all of it still lost in applause and excitement long after Amaterasu had left the stage. “Who don’t I know?”

* * *

If Christophe knowing everyone everywhere was sometimes a nuisance, it was now the ultimate boon: Chris and Amaterasu talked and exchanged cheek kisses like old friends. It had taken less than a minute for the butler to take Chris’ card inside and return to escort them into the dancer’s apartment, on the third floor of the Palais.

Amaterasu seemed to be made of everything Victor would have never predicted: his dancing, his intoxicating beauty… his friendship with Chris was another welcome addition to the list, but not as welcome as the sheer black lace peignoir in which he’d chosen to receive them. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and Victor stifled a whimper.

The biggest surprise came when Victor kissed his hand; there was a delicate intake of breath and a subdued “Captain Nikiforov, of course. Our resident hero.”

Victor looked up, eyes wide, only to find that blush again, spreading generously down his neck and chest.

“You know who I am?”

The dancer cocked his head, with a quiet charm Victor had also not expected. “We all read the papers, captain. It’s not every pilot who shoots down six German aircrafts in one single battle.”

On stage, Amaterasu laid down fire and sinuous moves, but none of that matched the soft voice used in private, the eyes that shied away and the blushing smile from which it was impossible to look away.

If life was nothing more than a series of cheap sensations, the man in front of him was anything but.

After that, Victor’s nights became solely comprised of watching Amaterasu dance and having dinner with him. And every single night ended with him kissing Amaterasu’s hand, wishing him a good night and walking away.

Another surprise came two months later, during a rare moment of silence between them during dinner.

“...Yuuri,” the dancer mumbled, more at his own plate than at Victor.

“I’m sorry?” he asked, watching the dancer fidget with the fork for a few seconds before looking up again.

“My name’s Yuuri. So you can… call me that,” and there it was. The blush that spread and tempted, the eyes that looked down before coming back up in hope, everything that held Victor’s heart firmly in its grasp.

His booking agent, M. Chulanont, only called him Amaterasu in public, and his butler called him “M. Amaterasu”. No one, not even Chris, knew his name. But here was the key to the mystery, willingly surrendered to Victor.

He smiled, something he’d almost forgotten how to do before Yuuri. “Only if you’ll stop calling me ‘captain’.”

“I’ll think about it,” Yuuri joked, smiling through the red on his face. “But only if you stop bringing Italian champagne to my table.”

Victor gasped in mock injury. “Yuuuuri! Do you know how hard it is to find champagne in the middle of a war? We’re lucky we even have this,” he said, raising the cheap bottle of _ Stammi Vicino_. 

Yuuri raised his eyebrows. “How _ do _you manage to buy this?”

“Oh, you know,” he said with a shrug. “Chris. A couple of friends in high places. Favors to call in.” What he did not say was that he would’ve walked barefoot from Paris to Reims to get Yuuri a single glass of champagne, if he so wished.

When it was time to leave, Victor stopped at the door and kissed Yuuri’s hand as usual. “Good night, Yuuri.”

Yuuri smiled, walking towards his own bedroom. “I hope so,” he said. With one easy tug at the sash, his peignoir fell to the floor, pooling at his feet and leaving nothing else behind but the perfect lines of his body. And with a look over his shoulder that was both Yuuri and Amaterasu, he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door open. Victor immediately followed — not only that night, but for every night after that for the next eight months.

* * *

**_March, 1916_**

** _BATTLE RAGES AT VERDUN_ **

_ Berlin Claims Capture of Over 10,000 Prisoners _

_Paris Asserts French Line Is Holding and That Germans Are Suffering Great Losses Without Results_ _  
_

Yuuri skimmed over the first few paragraphs until he found what he was looking for:

** _French Squadron Captured_ **

_ The German war office at Berlin announced yesterday the capture of Escadrille N5, under the command of Captain Nikiforov, in the region north of Verdun as far as the ridge of Loudemont— _

He crumpled the newspaper and threw it away, blinking back tears. By his side, Phichit seemed at a loss for words. A first, for sure, but it came at a time when the last thing Yuuri felt like doing was basking in it.

“Yuuri, you can’t… keep thinking about it, there’s nothing you can do. I mean…” Phichit opened his arms in a helpless gesture, “it’s a war. _ The _ war. You knew this could happen.” 

Knowing and hoping were two completely separate things, though. He knew Victor could be captured or killed in action at any moment, but every day when it hadn’t happened had strengthened his hope that it never would. Just like Phichit “knew” Yuuri couldn’t do anything, while Yuuri hoped for the exact opposite. He stood up.

“Call Minami, ask him to get me a car,” he said, already going to his bedroom and flinging open his wardrobe. He was going to need an actual suit for that.

“A car? Where on earth are you going?!”

“To the Deuxième Bureau. I’m getting Victor back.”

* * *

The newspaper landed on the table with a thump, the headline **_BATTLE RAGES AT VERDUN _**screaming on its front page. Colonel Jean-Jacques Leroy looked up from the paper. “Did you come to rub our losses on my face, M. Amaterasu?”

“I want him back,” said Yuuri, with a cold confidence he was far from feeling, though that didn’t mean he couldn’t exude it. He made a living out of it, after all.

The colonel glanced at the paper one more time and reclined on his chair. “Nikiforov? I did hear something about you two a while ago. I’m sorry, but a rescue mission is not something we can afford,” he finished with a shrug.

“Bring me Captain Nikiforov back, and I’ll give you Prince Wilhelm.”

That had the exact effect Yuuri had been hoping for: Leroy gaping at him. He stared at Yuuri, mouth open uncouthly for a few, long seconds; when he closed it, it was with a pensive look, and Yuuri had never seen a thoughtful expression befit anyone so poorly; it was probably due to the infrequency with which the colonel wore it. 

“I won’t deny your liaison to the Bureau has been quite useful, monsieur. But one thing is using your… 'powers of persuasion' on diplomats and officers, another entirely is the Crown Prince of Germany.”

“I can do it any time I want,” Yuuri said with a shrug. “The Prince has offered me, um… shall we say, a bedroom in the palace with exclusive rights? Many times before. And he has quite the loose tongue with the right amount of wine. Whatever you want to know, I can get it."

"And if we ask you now…"

"You know my conditions."

Colonel Leroy gave him a toothy smile Yuuri did not care for. “Monsieur, we got ourselves an understanding.”

* * *

** _July, 1917_ **

** _DANCER AMATERASU ARRESTED_ **

_ Famous Dancer Accused of Treason Against France _

Yuuri stared at the news. “I’m getting a closed-door trial?!”

Chris nodded. “They need a scapegoat, someone to blame for the 50,000 soldiers they just lost. Much easier if the trial is not conducted under public scrutiny. You’re not French and… you’re a dancer.” Chris waved his hands vaguely. “The danger of loose morals and all that,” he finished bitterly.

Yuuri choked on rage, but held his tongue. Despite the doors of La Santé Prison being made of solid, heavy wood, the guard outside could still probably hear most of what they said inside. They were talking too much already as it was.

According to the news, the Deuxième Bureau had intercepted a telegram between Germany and Austria about “their” double-agent E23, whose physical description was exactly like Amaterasu’s and included his Japanese nationality. Chris’ hushed report, on the other hand, told him the Bureau had faked the telegram once it became clear that Prince Wilhelm was a merely decorative figure who knew nothing about his own army — all that after having sent Amaterasu to Berlin and paid him 10,000 francs for it _(very nice negotiation skills, my friend, _Chris added with a wink).

During trial, there would be “definitive proof” that Amaterasu had handed secret information to the Germans, directly causing the 50,000 casualties France had suffered in the last battle, and then a death sentence.

“But fear not, Yuuri,” Chris continued, in a chipper tone that was shockingly inappropriate for the circumstances, “I’ve brought something to cheer you up! I hear it’s your favorite!”

Yuuri stared in disbelief as Chris got something out of a paper bag: a bottle of _ Stammi Vicino _champagne.

“Be wise about it,” he added with a cheeky smile, “this wasn’t easy to procure.”

* * *

**_September, 1917_ **

“Colonel Leroy approached me in August of 1914 proposing that I work for the Bureau, using my professional travels to gather information for the French,” Yuuri stated as firmly as possible, while the cold eyes of the officers around the court already passed the sentence. 

The prosecutor scoffed. “You mean to tell us, M. Katsuki — if that even is your real name — that the head of the French Intelligence approached a _ Japanese dancer _for information? Not only is that hard to believe, but also not what he says.”

Yuuri jutted his chin. “That the French Army deals in lies and deceit should not be news to anyone here, sir.”

The judge gave him a hard stare. “You will address this institution with the respect it deserves, M. Katsuki.”

“And you claim to have been paid 10,000 francs to spy on the Crown Prince,” the prosecutor continued, unperturbed. “But monsieur, everyone knows prince Wilhelm commands his army only in name! Why would the Deuxième Bureau pay such a sum to a dancer for spying on a useless prince? Can you riddle us that, monsieur?”

“Perhaps colonel Leroy is much less well-informed than you think him,” answered Yuuri coldly.

“The head of our Intelligence, uninformed! You are too funny, monsieur! And how do you explain the 10,000 _ marks,_ not francs, in your bank account? Or that we cannot find any of the properties you claim to own under the name of Yuuri Katsuki? Do you deny you were in desperate need of money and did not care what the source of it might be?”

Yuuri could feel the blood abandon him. That the Bureau would go as far as to pay him in marks instead of francs was the lowest of blows. As for his properties — his house in Bordeaux, his villa in Marseilles — the less he said about it the better.

“I… cannot explain it, sir. But I have never been in desperate need for money, as I do have a job.”

The prosecutor laughed theatrically. “A job! Dancing and seducing honest men, a job! M. Katsuki, enough of your jokes. Speaking of honest men, you claim to have made a deal with colonel Leroy: information from the Crown Prince, and in exchange the Bureau would try to rescue Captain Nikiforov back from the Germans, is that correct?”

Upon Yuuri’s confirmation, the prosecutor gestured at him dramatically, as if he were a thing on display for all to see, briefly addressing the jury: “The lies his kind of people devise!" With a sneer, he added, "Your Honor, The prosecution calls Captain Victor Nikiforov to the stand."

Yuuri watched, frozen in place, as the doors opened to let Victor in. Victor, whom he hadn’t seen for almost two years — ever since he’d been sent to Verdun and captured there.

According to his testimony, he’d been one of the few pilots of the Escadrille N5 to evade capture, and spent the last 18 months hiding, walking back from Belgium to France. He’d only gotten to Paris last month. He also denied any sort of liaison with M. Amaterasu. All throughout his testimony, he didn’t spare one single glance at Yuuri. 

Victor’s back leaving the court was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

* * *

**_October, 1917_**

** _JAPANESE SPY CONDEMNED_ **

_ Death Penalty Meted Out to Dancer Amaterasu _

_** Spy to be shot**_ **_Amaterasu’s booking agent _**

_Court-Martial rejects appeal of M. Amaterasu_ _ Phichit Chulanont flees the country_

Yuuri stared at the ceiling. Or tried to, who knew what he was looking at without his glasses. But if he could trust the light coming through his window, it was right before dawn, that eerie time of in-betweens when nothing’s real and fantasies start to melt. Like his hopes that maybe he wouldn’t have to face the firing squad in a few hours, right outside of Vincennes. Vincennes was nice. The Marquis de Sade had been imprisoned there, maybe that was where they took those with “loose morals”.

A quiet rattle at the door woke him from his forced contemplation — much, much earlier than he’d expected; he was to be taken before dawn? He wouldn’t even have a whole morning? And he would never see Phichit again, or his family back in Japan. Or Victor. The last thing he’d see would be a firing squad, and the landscape of Vincennes, and that door that creaked open, too slow and not slow enough, merciless like the passage of time. He stared at it, fingers digging in his thighs and jaw set so tight he could have a headache from it.

_ “ Solnyshko?” _

_ Oh god. _Yuuri shuddered a breath of relief. Even without his glasses and through the tears now forming he could see Victor, dressed as one of the guards of La Santé and giving him one of his heart-shaped smiles, as if they were back in Yuuri’s apartment above the Palais instead of the most infamous prison in France.

He’d hoped. He’d been hoping since Chris had called him “Yuuri” — a name only one person could have given to him — and brought him a bottle of Stammi Vicino with a letter from Victor inside instead of champagne. But time could wear down even the most robust of hopes, specially time in prison.

“You came,” he whispered. He had to, as a sound above a whisper might shatter that reality.

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

Even with tears prickling hot in his eyes, Yuuri was nothing if not a showman. “I was… beginning to doubt, yeah,” he said with a teary smile.

Victor dropped the bundle of clothes he carried and opened his arms, and Yuuri buried himself on his chest.

“I’m sorry, _ solnyshko_, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry it took so long,” he murmured against Yuuri’s hair.

“I can’t believe you did it, how?!”

“Oh, you know,” Victor answered, and Yuuri could hear a smile in his next words. “Chris. A couple of friends in high places. Favors to call in. Now, are you ready?”

With a nod, Yuuri left the comfort of Victor’s arms and quickly started undressing. Victor watched him put on the new clothes he’d brought with the same eyes he used to watch him dance, and Yuuri blushed under his gaze.

Victor handed him his glasses and, to his surprise, also a hat. “All your pictures on the papers are of you in costume, no glasses and hair gelled back. The suit-glasses-hat combination should work well enough.”

“Ugh, I hate hats,” said Yuuri, putting it on with a grimace. “I look ridiculous.”

But Victor swallowed audibly. “You look… you should keep that hat for later. It works... _ really _well.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A hat? Really?”

“You like my uniform, I like your hat, it’s a two-way street, love.”

“You also like my dancing costume.” Yuuri started counting on his fingers. “And my peignoir. And— mmmhh!!” Victor put an end to the list with a kiss that Yuuri would have given an arm for just a few minutes prior. Playful at first, the kiss turned serious — too serious _ — _when Victor moaned into it, and Yuuri had to fight the urge to pin him against the wall.

“Vitya. _ Vitya__,”_ he whispered, and Victor broke the kiss.

“Right! Right, yes, let’s go. Chris has a car outside!”

* * *

_My love, _

_ I was in Lille when I read about your arrest, but I will be in Paris already when you get this. I’m afraid the Bureau will not let you go, they need someone to blame for their recent defeat. Who better than a foreign spy? But we have a plan to get you out (to be more precise, Phichit has a plan). _

Wearing plain clothes, and with the new passports Chris had arranged for Victor and Yuuri — or rather, M. Plisetsky and M. Zelle — they had no problem getting on the first train to Zurich, quickly leaving France behind forever.

As Yuuri watched the French scenery pass them by one last time, Victor broke the wistful silence:

“You know, it seems Phichit is loving Zurich. Although that might be more about Chris than Zurich itself,” he added with a wink, and Yuuri snorted.

_ Phichit will sell your properties and wire the money to a bank account in Zurich, before the government confiscates them. (Phichit is rather good at forging your signature, solnyshko, and I don’t know whether to admire or fear his skill.) _

When Yuuri still said nothing, Victor surprised him yet again, holding Yuuri’s hand to his heart

“Yuuri, do you forgive me?” he asked. “For the testimony? You know I hated every second of it, don’t you?”

_ The Bureau will investigate me, and probably call me for an interrogation. We must convince them you are nothing to me, or I will not be at freedom to act. If they know of my feelings for you, I will be a suspect. _

Yuuri smiled sadly. The testimony had been the most painful part of the plan, but necessary nonetheless. “Don’t worry, Vitya,” he said, kissing Victor’s hand, “I was prepared for it.”

But Victor whined as if in actual physical pain. “I had to give a statement to _ Le Parisien_ saying I barely knew you! Yuuri, _ it was horrible__!_ Worse than walking from Verdun to Belgium barefoot,” he pouted.

Yuuri chuckled. “I’m sure. But,” he pulled Victor by his tie, watching goosebumps ride up his neck as he whispered, “once we get to Zurich, you can show our love to the whole world. Convince me I’m everything to you.”

A stuttering breath, pupils dilated, and Yuuri’s mission was accomplished. 

“Let me make you M. Katsuki-Nikiforov,” Victor whispered back, with a smile that would not be found in any of his newspaper pictures. The one that made his heart pick up in his chest, meant only for Yuuri.

“Or, you know. Plisetsky-Zelle,” Victor added, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Yuuri wrinkled his nose. “That sounds horrible.”

"Yuuuriiiii!"

“I’ll think about it,” Yuuri joked, feeling his blush take over. He closed his eyes and pressed their foreheads together. “But only if you stay. No more battles, no more heroics, just— don’t leave again.”

“I have no intention of going anywhere you’re not, _ solnyshko__,” _Victor murmured, gently pulling him into a kiss — one that had nothing of the fleeting fire of nights hastily stolen in the middle of war. This was quiet, soft, never-ending like only the most compelling tales can be.

And theirs was just beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the [You Only Live Once: a Yuri!!! on Ice Spy Zine](https://yoispyzine.tumblr.com/). We're finally able to post our pieces, so ta-da!!
> 
> I was incredibly lucky that Morrindah also wanted to work on a Mata Hari AU ♥♥♥ And before I could even suggest it, she asked to draw Dancer Yuuri, because she _knows_ what's what. I mean, what's the point of a Mata Hari AU if you're not gonna have Dancer Yuuri, right? So please go shower Morrindah with all the love she deserves for all her amazing art, and for this lethally gorgeous Yuuri!
> 
> Oh: Yuuri's peignoir? [Something like this](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61E192nYyRL._SX342_.jpg). Victor never had a chance.
> 
> The title comes from a piece of the Mata Hari "myth": legend says that right before she was shot (unlike yuuri, her lover did not come back to rescue her), she blew a kiss to the firing squad. I'd give an arm for this to be true.
> 
> The names they adopt on their new passports, Plisetsky and Zelle, are respectively an homage to (obviously) our favorite angry kitten, who I love to have in my fics but just couldn't fit here, and Mata Hari's real maiden name, Margaretha Zelle.
> 
> Infinite thanks to my betas [Rae](https://regardingluv.tumblr.com/) and [Dommi](http://sinkingorswimming.tumblr.com), you guys are the best! ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡
> 
> Here's a rebloggable post on [Tumblr](https://thehobbem.tumblr.com/post/188072623072/somethingyoirelated-were-allowed-to-share-the) and another on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/thehobbem/status/1179148360730775552), if you'd like to help us spread the word of Dancer Yuuri!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! ♥


End file.
